I do my best impression of Ariel, front crawl slowly toward the shore. I look about for shadows in the water. If you see a shark, you’ve got to punch it in the nose. Ambrogio takes my hand—at last!—and pulls me up to the rocks by the shore. I look back at the boat sinking slowly behind me. A gash in the hull filling up with water. The yacht is completely destroyed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Taormina, Sicily
We fall into bed, our limbs entwined, our bodies pressed together.
“Sorry about the yacht. I’ll make it up to you,” I say.
Ambrogio doesn’t reply, he just kisses me deeper; his mouth is greedy for my mouth. He can just buy another boat, surely? I pull away and he rips off his polo. I watch his stomach muscles ripple and stroke his abs with my finger. His skin is hot and smooth and tanned a deep, dark, golden brown. He’s so delicious, he’s practically edible. His stomach looks like a bar of milk chocolate. I reach across to the lamp on the bedside table and flick the switch, pull a corner of the sheet to cover my breasts. I don’t want him to see me, just in case. But I can’t wait any longer; I want to fuck.
“Don’t turn it off,” Ambrogio says. “You know I don’t like to do it in the dark.”
“I’ve got a bit of a headache,” I say.
We’re doing it! Right now! We’re actually doing it! I reach for his boxers and yank them down, feel for his penis.
“Oh,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Why have you stopped?”
More cocktail sausage than bratwurst.
I’m sure it was bigger than that in Oxford. Actually, come to think of it, I can’t remember. . . . I was really, really drunk and it was a long time ago. It’s not like I had a benchmark in those days. I had no experience with men.
Ambrogio pulls me in toward him, licks my neck and bites my earlobe. He squeezes my tits like a stress ball. I reach down his belly toward his penis. Maybe if I touch it, give it a stroke, it might get bigger? Our legs twine together. I feel the inside of his foot with my toe. Oh.
“Aren’t you going to take off your socks?”
“What? Why should I? It never bothered you before.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I roll my eyes in the semi-dark.
He moves down my body between my legs. Something soggy: his chin in my bum hole, his nose on my clit. His tongue hangs out somewhere south of my vulva. It’s not really working.
“Are you done yet?” I ask.
He wipes his mouth, then clambers on top. My whole body tenses. What if I feel different than Beth? What if she wasn’t a doormat after all, did some mind-blowing tricks I don’t know? Did she know tantra? Could she suck like a Hoover? Could she hook her heels behind her neck?
Is it in yet?
I needn’t have worried.
Ambrogio pounds me for four or five minutes, sweating, groaning, panting, straining. It’s not very nice. I think he might actually chew off my ear. I’m just going to fake it. I remember that scene in When Harry Met Sally. I recall my experience with sex toy No. 5.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Ambrogio comes in three short bursts and then flops down hard on his side of the bed.
Well, that sucked. Seriously? Is that it? I must have been wasted in Oxford. He seemed to enjoy it, I suppose, but I think I prefer Mr. Dick. I can’t believe it. After all these years. It’s so unfair. I’m gutted.
“Merda!” says Ambrogio, jumping out of the bed and shrinking back from me, his back to the wall. “What the fuck? Alvina?” he says.
He’s looking me right in the eye like a shark, trying to read me like Larry David, like an operative from the CIA. A shadow falls across his face.
“Alvina?” I say. “Why—why would you call me that?”
Not a single hair on my body moves. Not that I have any. I shaved them all off when I became Beth. I’m petrified, stone-still, immobile, like one of those people in the museum in Pompeii, like that marble statue of Beth.
“You’re not Beth. You come different,” he says.
Do we? Oh, shit. Of course, I see: he means we fake different.
“What the hell’s going on? You’d better fucking explain!” he shouts, punching a fist into the headboard. “What the fuck did you do to my wife?”
I could explain, but it wouldn’t make any difference. By the look in his eyes, he wants to rip me apart.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, at last; my voice is shaking. I’m going to die. This is it.
“Oh, really?” he shouts. His voice is thunder.
“Really,” I say.
He stands up tall on the other side of the bed, flexing his fists. He looks really cross.
“What did you do? You killed her, didn’t you? You fucking bitch, you killed my wife!”
“No! I didn’t! Please . . . just listen!”
“You killed your sister! I should have known! You’ve been acting off all fucking day. Beth would never eat a whole pack of Pringles! And all that business with the yacht—Beth knew her way around a boat. She . . . she . . . she . . . she . . . we were supposed to kill you!” Ambrogio is tugging at his hair, practically pulling it out at the roots.
“I’m Beth! I’m Beth! I promise I’m not Alvie!”
I shrink back into the headboard, choking back tears. He grabs my ankles and pulls me back down the bed. Climbs on top and pins me down.
“What did I get you for Christmas last year?”
“I-I-I don’t remember.”
“Where did we have our first date?”
“I-I-I don’t recall.”
His face is less than an inch above mine; I can feel his saliva spray into my eyes; if I wasn’t so scared, I’d be so grossed out. His immense weight presses down.
“Which football team do I support?”
I’m going to just guess. . . . “Is it Italy?”
Behind Ambrogio, there’s a doll on the mantelpiece, the one that Elizabeth had as a kid. It flops over the fireplace staring right at me, something flashes in its shiny glass eyes. One solitary pin sticks out from its toes. It’s like Beth is here. It’s like she is watching me, right now, this very minute. I can feel her presence. I can feel her wrath.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Alvina,” Ambrogio says, leaning in closer. He’s shaking now, his eyes are wide. I hadn’t noticed how strong he was, bulging shoulder muscles, biceps, pecs. He could snap my neck like a twig.
“How . . . how do you know we come different?” I say. It’s worth a shot. . . .
“I fucked you in Oxford. Or were you too drunk to recall?”
“Shit,” I whisper, covering my mouth. “So you did know it was me? It was Alvie?”
“Of course I did. What, do you think I’m an idiot?”
I shake my head. “No, of course not.”
Ambrogio loosens his grip a little. Rubs his temples, closes his eyes.
“I just . . . I just . . . I don’t understand. Why the fuck were you dressed up as Beth?”
I seize the moment. He looks confused; this is my chance! I wriggle out and leap up off the bed. I grab my dress and sprint for the door; lucky it’s on my side of the room. Ambrogio’s naked and, from the corner of my eye, I see him scrambling around for his pants. I fly out the door, don’t look back.
I run down the hall, down the stairs, through the villa, pulling my dress on over my head. My palms are sweaty; perspiration prickles all over my body, my back, my neck. The cool night air makes me shiver. I push through the door and sprint over the terrace, bare feet smashing the patio tiles. I run down the driveway and onto the road. I don’t turn around, but I can hear him running close behind me, his feet crunching gravel, his voice is raised: “ALVINA! COME HERE!”
He’s going to kill me.
It’s quiet. It’s dark. I won’t be able to outrun him, but I think I might be able to hide. I race down the road toward the amphitheater. It’s only about a two-minute walk, so it shouldn’t take long. There’s got to be somewhere to hide around here: a bush, a rock. I look around, searching, searching. I run down the hill with my limbs flailing wildly. Sweat streams down across my face. My dress clings tightly to my skin. I wish I were wearing some pants. Sharp stones pierce the soles of my feet. I kick something hard—Fuck! That hurt—I think I’ve broken a toe! The adrenaline’s pumping, I’m stumbling, falling, but it’s better than the alternative: Ambrogio, pissed-off.
I see a rock against a fence in the semidarkness and leap up onto it. I scramble over the top and catch my thigh on a rusty nail—Ow! Shit!—skin rips. Now I’ve got tetanus. Something warm trickles down my leg. What is it? Blood, sweat, semen? But I don’t have time. I’m over the top. I jump down now and sprint for the theater. Ambrogio’s coming, a few meters behind.
“Alvie! Stop! Come here and tell me. Why the fuck were you dressed up as Beth? What was she up to?”
The fence crashes down as he scrambles up over it.
“I want to know what the fuck’s going on.”
The only light comes from the full moon; I can just about see the auditorium below me. I run down the steps toward the stage. I trip in the darkness and smash my knee. My face smacks the earth; grit and iron. There’s dirt in my eyes and they’re watering, stinging. I blink and blink and breathe in dust. Footsteps pounding close behind me; Ambrogio’s closing in. Oh, fuck! I heave myself up and off the ground; my knee throbbing, my toe aching. I’m coughing, spluttering, struggling to breathe.
I run for the stage and climb onto the platform. There are columns at the back and I head toward them. I hide behind a column, squat down, hold my breath. I see him running toward the stage. I scramble across to the next column along.
“You can’t run forever,” says Ambrogio. “Come here, Alvina! Everyone’s going to know what you did. Do you hear?”
No! No! No! No! I shake my head to block out the shouting. Sing to myself in my head: “I Should Be So Lucky.” “Shake It Off” . . . He jumps up on the stage. I see him stop and look both ways. A glint of silver. Something in his hand! What the hell is that? A knife? A gun?
He’s going to fucking make me pay.
He doesn’t know which way I’ve gone. He turns his back and creeps toward the opposite side of the empty stage. I tiptoe away to the next column along. I crouch down low in a shady corner, panting, cursing, my heart exploding, my forehead pressing against cool marble. My skin’s burning up. My throat is dry. There are at least three columns between Ambrogio and me. I need a vodka. I want to cry.
He turns around and walks toward me.
It’s a motherfucking gun!
I make myself small and catch my breath, breathing as softly as I can. Don’t make a sound. Keep quiet, Alvina. Do not fuck up. I wish I had my Swiss Army knife, or a corkscrew like that girl on the train. I wish I had a gun. I feel a rock on the ground by my feet and grasp it tight with trembling fingers. It’s the size of a Sicilian blood orange, heavy and round with a pointed end. He’s getting closer. Closer. Closer. He knows I’m here . . . somewhere . . . somewhere. I see his figure moving, stealthy, creeping on tiptoes, a black silhouette, trying to hide. He inches toward me, peering into the shadows. It’s quiet, save for Ambrogio’s breathing. Animal. Dangerous. It’s almost a growl. I hold my breath, though I want to scream. If I can hear him, then he can hear me. He’s only a couple of meters away. Two meters. One meter.
“Why were you dressed as Elizabeth, Alvie?” Ambrogio says into the darkness. “That wasn’t the plan. What’s going on?”
I leap up high and smash the rock down hard on his head. I pound him again with all my strength. He falls to the ground and drops the gun. Collapses, facedown on the stage. I stand over him now, the pointed rock still clutched in my fingers, my whole body shaking, poised to attack. His arms thrash around at both his sides and he reaches out for my ankle. Grabs it.
“Shit!” I scream.
His grip is firm. He’s far from dead. I need to finish him off, but I’m falling! He’s got both my ankles and he’s pulling me toward him. I stagger and fall down onto his chest. I raise the rock above my head, bring it down on top of his skull, smashing his head again and again and again and again and again.
CRACK!
CRACK!
CRACK!
CRACK!
I’m screaming and crying and shaking all at once. He’s stopped moving now, fucking finally, but his fingers still curl around my ankles, gripping as tight as iron shackles. I kick my feet free. I drop the rock, my fingers unable to grip any longer. There’s something slimy all over my hands, all up my arms and down my dress. A fleck of blood clings onto my lip: the taste of steak cooked rare. Drops of blood splatter my face, my neck. My whole body’s burning, radiating heat. I’m panting and sweating and sweltering hot. The cool night air wraps its tentacles around me like a squid or an octopus or a corpse’s fingers. I look down at the body and shiver.
I jump up and stagger back, see the gun where Ambrogio dropped it, only a few feet away. Why did Ambrogio own a gun? That was close. He could have shot me! Who the hell are these people? I thought I knew them. Thought they were family. I don’t know anything at all. I run over and grab it. I’ve never seen a real gun before, only toy ones and water pistols. I’ve never been paintballing or to Laser Quest. I weigh the gun in both hands: cold and heavy, surprisingly heavy. Alien. Strange. A rush of excitement surges all through my body. Ambrogio’s gun! I’m going to keep it. Now it’s mine!
I look down at Ambrogio’s sprawling figure. He’s naked apart from a pair of black boxers. The back of his head is matted with blood. I stand, doubled over, my hands on my knees, catching my breath. My whole body’s shaking, uncontrollable. My arms ache. My thighs throb. He isn’t moving. Surely he’s dead? I clutch the gun in my left hand, aim it, vaguely, in the direction of his head. I inch slowly forward toward the body, reach down low to find his jugular. I feel with my fingers, I’ll count for ten seconds. One, two, three, four . . . Thank God: no pulse. I snatch my hand away from his neck, expecting him to turn and bite me, jump up and grab me or scream in my face. I’ll shoot him down if he does. But he’s still. He’s dead. I can’t believe it. He’s gone! I’m safe!
Now what the hell am I going to do?
Chapter Twenty-Six
I bang on the door as hard as I can.
“Salvatore! Salvatore!”
I bang and bang until footsteps thud inside the villa. Shit, the gun! He’ll freak out. I throw the gun under a bush by the front door and kick some leaves over the top. I’ll come back and get it later.
“Che cosa? Che cosa?” he says.
A man swings the door open. He’s tall and broad, larger and taller than Ambrogio; it’s Salvatore. He reminds me of a celebrity wrestler, someone hot from WWE. He rubs his eyes. Poor thing; he’d been sleeping. I’ve woken him up. He must think this is his worst ever nightmare; his mistress at his door dripping with blood.
“Oh, minchia! Are you OK?”
He thinks it’s my blood.
“Salvatore,” I say. I fall into his arms, burst into tears, and sob on his chest. He pushes me off and steps back, in shock.
“Betta? What happened? What time is it?” He looks at his wrist, at the place where his Patek Philippe would be if it were day, but it’s not. It’s the middle of the fucking night.
“Please, please, you have to help me,” I say, gripping onto his forearms, my nails digging in, my eyes wide as graves. “He was going to kill me, I had no choice! He’s dead.”
I watch his face begin to change as Salvatore registers what I’ve just said. “What? Who? Kill you?” he says.
“Ambrogio.” I bite my lip. I can
still taste the blood. I run my tongue along the front of my teeth and swallow hard.
“Ambrogio? Kill you?” says Salvatore. “I don’t believe it! Ambrogio would never lay a finger on you. He’s a fucking cornuto. A pussy.”
“He had a gun,” I say. “He did!”
He takes my hand and pulls me inside, leans outside and scans the garden. Nothing. No one. He slams the door shut. Salvatore leads me into the kitchen and turns on the lights: unbearably bright; they hurt my eyes. I’ve been hanging out in the dark too long, like some kind of owl.
“Sit,” he orders.
Salvatore’s wearing a tight white T-shirt and blue-and-green–striped boxers by Calvin Klein. I’ve already seen him half-naked in the garden. I know he looks better with his top off. He towers above me, tall and muscular. He must work out, like, every day. I can see what my sister saw in him. I’m sure I’d probably have an affair. How are Italian men so impossibly attractive? I’d go crazy on Tinder if I lived over here! But it’s just not like Beth to be unfaithful. It’s so out of character. Why was she cheating? Running away? Ambrogio was perfect. Although, I suppose, he was crap in bed. But still, there must have been something else. She would never have wanted to leave her husband. It’s just not in her nature. I don’t understand.
Salvatore pours me a glass of tap water. My hand is shaking, some of it spills. I gulp it down and look up at a clock hanging up on the wall—1:13 a.m. Funny, that’s exactly the same time that Beth died. Salvatore stands over me looking at me strangely. He must be about six foot six. If it wasn’t for the blood splattered all up my arms and all over my dress, I’m not sure he’d believe me.
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